It was 36.2℃ under the blazing Iowa sun, decidedly mild by Vulcan standards, but enough to put the native lifeforms, human and bovine, into a state of prolonged inactivity. Of the second category, a trio of Holstein heifers were lying in their shed behind a white farmhouse of antique design; as for the first, one James T. Kirk was sprawled in the shade of a thick beech tree, eyes shut, his golden hair and lazy sunny smile blending deeply in with his surroundings. Spock's footfalls, when he walked slowly over soft earth, were far to quiet for human hearing to detect, but nonetheless at his approach Jim cracked an eye open.
"Spock!" he called out sleepily. "We're on shore leave, why're dressed for a funeral?" He gestured vaguely, indicating the black turtleneck and pants.
"I assure you, this is my casual attire," Spock replied. Jim chuckled, or rather snorted slightly as it was too hot for a real laugh. He knew that perfectly well, but it still had to be said every time they were on leave.
"C'mere Spock, sit down. Talk to me."
The temperature really was quite comfortable for the Vulcan, but he accepted that in this heat the human could not be expected to do much else, so he slid to the ground next to him, back against the tree, legs folded neatly while Jim's were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. There were no trees on Vulcan, nor such expanses of grass.
"What matter do you wish to discuss?" he asked when it became apparent that Jim was not going to spontaniously provide a topic. His head was tilted to the side and his breathing was so slow that almost anyone would take him for sound asleep.
"Do you love me?"
Spock looked sharply at him. Jim raised his head to meet his glittering dark eyes with his own, bright and sand-colored and full of summer.
"Yes."
Jim smiled softly and left his lids flutter shut. "Love you too." He sighed and slumped further down, if that were possible, resting his head on Spock's shoulder. As their heads met, and warmth pulsed through the bond, and Spock found himself idly counting the improbably slow beats of Jim's heart from a vein in his thumb, he considered that though he seemed cool enough, perhaps in Iowa, in August, in the afternoon, it really was too hot to do anything else.